


Sugar and Honey

by rumioki



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 13:40:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16996059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumioki/pseuds/rumioki
Summary: Oh man this is self indulgent as heck





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did even less research for this,,,  
> And I will probably continue to do none  
> I am s o r r y

Roman Kedrov was a dangerous man. Everyone who mattered knew that he was the driving force behind half the city, and was connected in far more, making him a force to be reckoned with. People who worked with him knew him to be resourceful and intelligent; people who crossed his path knew him to be ruthless and unforgiving. People thought him heartless, and they would have been right for the most part. But those who knew him well, knew he kept his heart safe,  in one Erik Callahan.

And they knew that this made him the most dangerous man in the city.

It begins like this:

“You need to improve your security,” a petite Asian woman strode into the room, her hair pulled back into a severe bun,  and an equally astringent expression on her face, “You’re making yourself look bad.”

“Why good morning Ms. Song,” a deep voice responded, almost purring in its honeyed grate, “How are you? Fine day, isn’t it?”

The man sitting behind the heavy, polished oak desk was regarded with a glare that could strip flesh from bone, “I know you don’t care about that shit, Kedrov. Your security—I don’t have all day.”

A sharp grin curled across Kedrov’s face, and he conceded with a small nod, waving a gloved hand for the woman to continue, “My apologies, Lynn—now, what was it about my security?”

“It’s criminally lax,” Lynn said—ignoring the huff of laughter that her phrasing earned—holding up the tablet that had been tucked under her arm, “You’ve had a breach this morning. The intruder’s been apprehended, but we’re still trying to figure out how he got in—and why.”

“Well, if he’s been apprehended, it’s not exactly a problem, is it?” Kedrov countered, the grin still on his face only growing wider when he saw the muscles in Lynn’s jaw twitch,

“Don’t ground your teeth,” he said, standing, “Of course I care—if the breach sent  _ you _ up here, I’m assuming it’s important enough.”

That seemed to appease the woman slightly, and she handed over the tablet, eyes flicking over to Kedrov’s hand as he took it from her, then back to his face. The expression on the man’s face was pleasant enough, but she knew better than to trust that crocodile smile at face value, and she was always more than aware of the sheer difference in size between them. Lynn considered herself to be a skilled and versatile person when it came to combat, able to hold her own in almost all cases, but she would sooner dive into a firefight than tempt the lethal power that shifted under Kedrov’s tanned skin.

She watched him look over the schematics with eyes that would have been colored warm on any other person, but managed to be hard amber, unforgiving steel trapped just beneath the misleading golden surface. Lynn remembered suppressing shivers at his gaze when they had first met, and the feeling had never left, but she knew she was more or less safe from his wrath now, as one of the few Kedrov trusted without caveats.

“Alright,” Kedrov suddenly said, shaking Lynn from her reverie, “Let’s go.”

“You’re coming?” Lynn asked, taking back the tablet and closing the schematics with a small frown, “You’re not just going to have me take care of this?”

“Well, you wouldn’t have come all the way up here to tell me if you were just going to deal with it yourself, no?” Kedrov asked, smile becoming almost oppressive in its weighted force, “Now, what would be the point in that?”

“Well—”

Kedrov cut her off with a barking laugh, dissipating the cruel air around him, “I’m kidding,” he said, accent curling around his words, “I would leave it to you, but I’m bored—and I’d very much like to see the mouse that slipped through our systems.”

Lynn blinked, before she rolled her eyes, “Always so contrary,” she griped, mostly only to see the man light up with amusement, before he swept out of the room, never the one to do anything slowly. She was only the slightest bit disappointed that she couldn’t stand in the glow of Kedrov’s good mood—his smile was a rare thing, and was bound to disappear when dealing with the intruder. For a man at the top, pulling on the strings of much more than what happened in the mansion, he was surprisingly expressive, never the one to reign in his reactions. And when he was happy, warmth  _ flooded _ from him, untainted and uninhibited, and anyone around would be helpless to fight being pulled into his orbit.

It was uncommon, but when it happened, it was a sight to behold, and Lynn was proud to say that she was one of the few that could even begin to get the corners of his mouth to genuinely curl up. She supposed this was one of the many qualities that allowed Kedrov to so easily collect bills of loyalty in a world where trust was priced by the microgram—his nature made  _ something _ in everyone desperate to please him, and she honestly believed that his approval felt better than crack—it was certainly rarer. As open with his emotions he was, he always had an iron-clad control over himself, and he never seemed to feel much of anything at all, his face always one of patient indifference.

But he was shaking his head and grinning as he walked out of his office, and Lynn counted that as a victory for the week on her part. She followed behind him down the hall to the stairs, carpet muffling the sound of their footsteps as they made their way down to the basement. The basement was the only floor in the entire building that wasn’t carpeted, but it obviously had been at one point, if the remains of glue and tufts of fabric on the concrete was anything to go by. Lynn could see that the basement had been as nice as the rest of the mansion at one point, but the entire floor had been gutted, with all the fancy embellishments that adorned the walls of the upper floors removed, and all the doors of the rooms replaced with iron alloy bars. The floor was constantly damp and mildewy, despite the drain in the center of the floor, with the amount of times the walls and ground were power-washed. Half the lights were either broken or dimming, making the entire floor a sickly grey. Lynn never liked staying in the basement for too long, but it served its purpose extremely well, and if the claustrophobia that itched under her skin became too much, she could always make someone else take over for her. It wasn’t so nice for the people who were  _ brought _ there, on the other hand.

They entered to the noise of flesh hitting flesh and a quiet grunt. Lynn scowled, having expected the guy to be screaming by now, sampling the effectiveness of their new sound-proofing system. But he was as quiet as before, despite their heavy-hitter whaling on him for the past fifteen minutes. They turned the corner from the stairwell that lead into the main room, right into eyeline of their heavy hitter, who froze with his foot halfway through the air.

“Boss,” he said, slowly lowering his leg, “Something wrong?”

Kedrov hummed and drew closer, forcing him to move back, confusion stark on his face as he stepped away from the intruder. The poor bastard was curled up on the floor, knees curled to his chest in an effort to protect his stomach, and he probably would have had his arms around himself as well, if it wasn’t for the handcuffs pinning his wrists behind him.

Kedrov stared at the intruder appraisingly, before he gestured with two fingers, “Jay, get him up.”

The heavy hitter worked around Kedrov and grabbed the intruder by the back of his collar to yank him up, pulling another low groan from him. He looked like hell—Lynn had left him with only a black eye and some mottled skin, and it was obvious that Jay hadn’t held back—only just enough to keep the intruder conscious. He was sporting fresh bruises high on his cheekbones, and his lip was split, his breathing shallow and controlled, probably forced out from behind broken ribs.

Lynn had to hand it to him though—the intruder managed to glare up at Kedrov through watering, narrowed eyes, the challenge clear on his face, despite it doing its best to look like he had been dragged face-down across the interstate.

“Let him go,” Lynn looked up just in time to catch Jay’s baffled expression, before he obeyed, releasing the back of the intruder’s shirt as if he’d been burned. He backed up a step as Kedrov took another step forwards, towering over the intruder and staring down at him, face inscrutable. The intruder didn’t slump over as she expected without Jay holding him up. He straightened even, stiffening the set of his shoulders and meeting Kedrov’s gaze evenly, looking more in control of the situation than he had any right to.

Kedrov sank to his knees, leveling himself with the intruder, and the intruder followed suit, slowly tilting his head down, eyes never leaving the boss’s face. Lynn drew incrementally closer—enough to see Kedrov’s face at the same time as the intruder’s, convincing herself that she’d be better at supporting the boss at a closer range, despite the fact that she was aware of herself enough to know that her proximity came from curiosity, not convenience.

But it was clear she wasn’t the only one curious about what would happen next. Jay twisted his face at her, before he moved over to stand next to her, coming at parade rest, leaving very little space between them.

“Why’d you bring the boss down here?” he asked, tilting his head towards her, so she could pick up his hissed words, “I had things fucking covered.”

Lynn hummed and arched an eyebrow, but she didn’t comment on the fact that she knew Jay hadn’t drawn anything other than quiet groans from the intruder.

“He wanted to come down,” Lynn explained. She paused for a moment, then added, “He was bored.”

“Bullshit,” Jay muttered.

Lynn shrugged in response, and Jay just huffed, straightening his neck again, to watch their boss and the intruder continue to stare each other down, a tangible tension hanging thick in the air.

“Are they gonna do that all day?” Jay asked, and Lynn glanced over in time to catch him rolling his eyes.

“You got somewhere to be?”

Jay shot her a baleful glare, but didn’t reply, knowing fully well that he couldn’t go anywhere without her dismissing him, and that she knew that his schedule for the rest of the day had been cleared for the sole purpose of breaking down the intruder. Kedrov was just a brief reprieve for him, albeit a rather unwelcome one.

Lynn took pity on him, and offered, “You can go grab a coffee or something while the boss chats,” she waved him off and added, “Get me one too.”

“I’m not your goddamn butler,” Jay snapped, but he did turn on his heel to leave, and Lynn didn’t take his anger seriously—their heavy hitter was always volatile and more than a little contrary. The fact that he left in the first place told her that she could expect a large macchiato in an hour or so.

Lynn snorted and turned her attention back to Kedrov and the intruder, neither of them giving any indication that they cared, or even heard the exchange happening a mere couple of feet away from them. Restlessness itched under her skin, but Lynn linked her hands behind her at the small of her back, and she focused on the point of contact, stopping herself from shifting on her feet.

It was only a second later when Kedrov apparently found what he was looking for in the intruder’s face, and something in his expression sharpened, a slow smile curling across his face. It was positively predatory, and Lynn felt like she could  _ almost _ pity the intruder. Kedrov looked like he found the reason to devour the intruder alive, and Lynn had to wonder how many working limbs the intruder would have left by the time the boss was done with him. But the intruder didn’t wilt under the weight of Kedrov’s gaze. He even tilted his chin up, meeting Kedrov’s eyes with his own threat. Lynn didn’t think there’d be much of him left when Kedrov was satisfied.

She watched as Kedrov leaned in and brushed a gloved thumb over a quickly purpling bruise on the intruder’s jaw, before he moved his hand to grip the intruder’s face to angle it one way, then the other. The intruder’s eyes never left Kedrov’s face, an edge of wary concern seeping into them.

Kedrov made a low noise in the back of his throat, and his hand trailed down to the intruder’s throat, fingers twitching against his pulse, before moving further down to trace his collar, his shoulders, finally skimming over the intruder’s ribs before settling back over the bruise.

“Tell me,” Kedrov began quietly, hand dropping to rest on his thigh, “What brings you here,  _ myshka _ ?”

The intruder held his stare for a moment longer, before he rasped out, “I’m looking for a job.”

His voice sounded like it’s been shot to hell, and Lynn rectified her assumption that the intruder hadn’t been screaming. It sounded like speaking would be painful for him, and his words came from a throatful of gravel. He still managed to sound surprisingly young despite the hoarse quality of his voice, the high, soft lilt of youth not quite quashed by a damaged larynx. It was close, Lynn thought, but not quite—and she knew that Kedrov caught it too.

“A job, you say?” Kedrov asked, arching an eyebrow, “Perhaps you should have knocked on the front door, no? And avoid all of,” he gestured to the black and blue smudges maring the intruder’s pale skin, “This.”

“Didn’t think I’d get very far like that.”

“Well,” Kedrov said, sitting back on his haunches and raking his gaze over the intruder again, like he was reassessing him, “How far did you get with breaking in,  _ myshka _ ?”

“I’m talking to Roman Kedrov,” the intruder pointed out, without an ounce of flair or sarcasm to his tone.

“Oh, so you know of me?”

The intruder’s expression finally changed, and he frowned at Kedrov, as if he wasn’t exactly sure if he was hearing the right thing coming out of the boss’s mouth. 

He looked incredulous for a moment longer, before he said, “That’s why I’m here.”

“And what makes you think that I have a job for you,  _ myshka _ ?”

“I’ve heard some things,” the intruder said, expression carefully neutral again, “There’s been talk saying you could use a good sniper.”

“I see,” Kedrov hummed, “You’re a good sniper,  _ myshka _ ?”

“One of the best.”

It would have been easy to hear the claim as a not-so-humble brag to butter up their boss, but the amount of resigned exhaustion that clung to the intruder’s words struck Lynn as deeply disconcerting, and it made the bold statement ring true. And if it  _ was _ true, the intruder found no pride in it.

Kedrov seemed to draw the same conclusion as she did, and he just nodded, “And what should I know you as,  _ myshka _ , if you are as good as you say?”

“Бродяга ”

Lynn had never seen Kedrov’s entirety shutter closed so quickly before. It wasn’t just his amiable expression that fell away—his whole body seemed to draw away from the intruder and tense, setting Lynn on edge as well.

The intruder shifted on his knees, seeming to feed on their discomfort. He sucked in a deep breath and flashed a grin with teeth so gritted that it was more of a grimace. Lynn watched his eyes flicker to Kedrov’s hands, still resting on his thighs, but tensed, and curling into the fabric of his slacks.

“I don’t like liars,  _ myshka _ ,” Kedrov growled, leaning forwards, forcing the intruder to tilt his head back, “I didn’t build an empire by trusting  _ liars _ .”

“Of course not,” the intruder huffed. He met Kedrov’s glare with his own and bared his teeth, refusing to back away any more than he already had in an effort to keep Kedrov in his sights, “Four blocks away—there’s an armored van—it has some state-of-the-art equipment, and another little thing that I think you’ll appreciate.”

“And this thing…” Kedrov said, drawing out his words, “I assume it’s something only Бродяга would be able to— _ procure _ ?”

The intruder didn’t justify the question with an answer, “If it’s trust you’re looking for, my name is Erik—formerly known as the Vagabond,” the intruder, Erik, flashed his teeth in a mock of a smile again, “But you know that, don’t you?”

“Бродяга,” Kedrov mused again, before he stood in one fluid motion. He held his locked gaze with Erik for a moment longer, before he turned and swept past Lynn, hand brushing against her upper arm lightly,

“I have questions,” he said, “Send someone to look for the vehicle. Clean him up, bring him to my office.”

Lynn frowned and took a few paces back to see Kedrov’s face as he walked past her, “Is that a good idea? All of this frankly reeks.”

Kedrov stopped and snapped his head around, the full force of his fury barrelling into Lynn, “ _ Don’t _ question my judgement,” he snarled, bristling. Lynn could only freeze, caught in the shock of Kedrov’s anger. It was never directed fully towards the people who worked for him, but Lynn knew what happened to Kedrov’s enemies. She knew it was never anything pretty.

“Bring. Him. Up,” Kedrov said again, before he stormed past her and out of sight into the stairway.

“Yes sir,” Lynn said belatedly, her eyes drifting from where Kedrov last stood to the intruder, whose face was blank and impassive yet again. He had allowed himself to slouch slightly, however, and his breathing wasn’t quite as even as when he was staring down Kedrov. 

Lynn curled her lip into a disgusted sneer, but she knew that the intruder couldn’t see her, but it didn’t really matter either way.

“Get up,” she hissed.


	2. Chapter 2

Roman paced in his office behind his desk, running a nervous hand through his hair. He barely noticed the strands drifting down into his eyes from where he had messed it out of its tie, although he typically made it a point to keep his appearances impeccable. It had been drilled into him from a young age, that it was one thing to hold power, and another to  _ look _ it, and that the latter was more important. He dressed immaculately in an effort to never give away anything—to never let anyone know how frazzled he was, or how  _ excited _ he was. But running his fingers through his hair was also an energized tic he had never quite grown out of, and before he knew it, Roman had peeled his gloves off his hand and was making a mess of his tied hair.

The  _ Vagabond _ .

Of all the things he had been expecting from the little intrusion, one of the most coveted hitmen on the black market was not on the list. One of the most coveted  _ and _ one of the most elusive.

Intel had it that the Vagabond had gone dark close to a year ago, his normal channels of contact disconnected, and his connections with his high-profile managers and handlers severed. The Vagabond had gone deep underground without any explanation—none from the man himself, or from whatever anyone else could dig up—and had maintained a radio silence ever since.

Until now.

Roman was equal parts excited and terrified. It was, of course, thrilling to have any news on the Vagabond's whereabouts, and even more so to know  _ exactly _ where he was. But for-hire hands that auctioned off at a high price such as the Vagabond only went dark for that long without any noise in the network for two reasons: retirement, or death. And if the Vagabond  _ had _ been retired, it meant someone had given up a lot to draw him out, and it was more than likely that him appearing on Roman's doorstep was no coincidence. That made the Vagabond the most direct threat that he and his crew had to face in a while.

The man himself had said that he was looking for a job, but Roman didn’t believe that for a second. There was no shortage in demand for the man’s skills, and he was sure that the slightest indication that the Vagabond was back on the market would have flooded all the usual channels with jobs for the contract killer. He’d have to be about as stupid as Pandora to trust the Vagabond in front of him—if the man was even the Vagabond in the first place—and Roman hadn’t made it so far in life by being stupid and curious. A healthy amount of skepticism kept people alive, and if he could somehow meet or best the price the Vagabond was being offered, Roman would be one step ahead of everyone else in the game. So Roman was going to talk to the man, instead of putting a bullet in his head, like he should have done the moment the man claimed he was the Vagabond.

Sue him, he was a romantic.

Roman sighed and pulled out the band from his hair to tie it back again, before he checked on the blank screen of his phone to make sure that he didn’t look ruffled. Even if he wasn’t quite convinced that the man was the Vagabond, he had seen the flat steel reflected in intensely blue eyes, and he knew that the man— _ Erik _ —would be one to notice his stress from a misplaced strand. Roman slipped on his gloves again, the soft, supple leather more comforting than practical in his office, and sat down in his chair, leaning back slightly to be the picture of natural ease.

He didn’t have to wait long before there was a quiet knock on his door before it opened to Lynn, nearly shoving the intruder forwards into his office. Roman let a obliging smile cross his face, a false kind of welcoming that the man received with a flat gaze of his own.

Roman gestured to the chair in front of his desk, and the intruder crossed the room without prompting, settling down in the seat, leaning forwards slightly so he didn’t rest on his arms, still bound behind him.

“We’re good for now,” Roman told Lynn, only half aware of her hovering presence still at the door. He typically allowed her to be in the room while he was conducting business—she had a quick and logical mind that he valued, and often viewed deals from different angles than he did. Roman wasn’t ashamed to admit that she had saved him from several disastrous deals before; there was a reason why she was his unofficial right hand.

But he couldn’t have anyone questioning him while he faced down someone who claimed to be the Vagabond. Questions could too easily be construed as weakness from an outsider’s perspective, and although he wouldn’t mind the Vagabond underestimating him in any other situation, he couldn’t have that if he wanted to have even a chance at coaxing the flighty contractor to change employers.

He met Lynn’s glare with a nod, and she backed out of the room, a deep scowl on her face. But she closed the door nonetheless, leaving the two men in an oppressive silence.

Roman assessed the man in front of him under the better light of his office again, and he found it hard to believe that  _ he _ was the infamous Vagabond. He was a good half foot shorter than Roman himself, and he was a slight man, with none of the heavy musculature that Roman had come to expect from the butchers during his time with the Bratva. His sandy blond hair fell in loose, unruly waves across his forehead, and Roman suspected that the man would look more in place wandering an art gallery, or sitting at a cozy cafe, rather than in the office of the boss of the Russian-American mafia. The antiquated, yellow glow of the light fixtures in the room softened everything about the man, and Roman found himself drawing parallels between the man and a young Narcissus, or perhaps Cupid—he had the face of a Romantic era artists’ depiction of a Greek tragedy, and the gentle moue his mouth curved into did nothing to help his image against it.

The man didn’t seem to mind Roman picking him apart, his almost distant expression unchanging, even as long minutes passed.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

Roman let out a quiet breath and checked his screen under the desk and out of sight, carefully schooling his expression at the message that one of his men had sent.

Everything the intruder had claimed he had left in the armored vehicle checked out. Apparently, whatever it was that the intruder left for Roman as a token of good faith was surprising enough for a second message, ‘ _ Who the hell is this guy? _ ’

And well, that was what Roman intended to find out.

“So,  _ myshka _ ,” Roman finally said, slipping his phone back into his pocket without replying. He didn’t know if the man spoke Russian beyond the one phrase for the codename, but the diminutive had stuck with Roman, and it put him in a place of control, by giving an improper name on the intruder.

The intruder’s eyes seemed to light up—like something in his brain was coming back online, his attention sharpening and honing in on Roman.

“Would you like to tell me what you left in that van that has my people so… excited?”

The intruder stared at him for a moment, before he answered haltingly, “Someone—someone you’ve been looking for a while,” he paused, “Someone who’s recently…  _ escaped _ your reach.”

“And I expect this isn’t simply out of good will?”

The intruder shrugged, “It’s more of a—ah…  how should I say this—a promise, of sorts.”

“Of sorts.”

A small smile lifted the corners of the intruder’s mouth, “Would it be called a token of loyalty in your world of business?”

Roman returned the smile with a raised eyebrow, “Perhaps,” he said, “It would of course, depend on what it is.”

“Antoni Russo.”

“Боже мой .” Roman sank back in his seat, feeling like the wind had been punched out of him. He worried his lower lip with his teeth, mind kicking into overdrive, until he realized what he was doing, and he forced himself to stop. But he knew that the movement hadn’t gone unnoticed by the man, but at least he had his complexion to thank for hiding the rush of blood that crawled high across his face.

“Antoni Russo,” Roman repeated, narrowing his eyes at the intruder, “You’re saying that you brought Russo here—to do what?  _ For _ what?”

“I’m here for a job,” the intruder, who Roman was steadily growing convinced was the actual Vagabond, said in his infuriatingly placid way.

Roman nodded slowly, half mulling things over as his face suggested, and half buying himself time to form a response.

“So you said,” Roman agreed. He paused, then said, “Tell me, how did you get your hands on one of the top players in the Italian family business?”

The intruder—the Vagabond? Erik?—tilted his head, as if he couldn’t entirely believe that Roman was asking him that question.

“The feds have been cracking down on the Russos,” the intruder said carefully, “Their entire operation fell apart, and while the remaining enforcers were scrambling to cover their activity, they forgot to cover their bases on other things.”

“You,” Roman clarified, raising his eyebrows.

“Me,” the intruder agreed with a nod, “They were done for anyways, but I figured that you’d prefer a more… personal approach in settling the score with Antoni,” one corner of his lip turned up into what could possibly be called a smile, under the best of circumstances, “And the feds won’t really be suspicious of his sudden disappearance, not with them rounding up the rest of his ranks.”

Roman frowned slightly, only just realizing how much the intruder knew about him, if he knew about the personal slight Russo made against him several years ago. Half his own men didn’t know that what had happened with Russo was more than just a business deal gone wrong. And if he knew anything about guys like the intruder, he knew that they always knew much more than they let on, which was one personal secret too many for the intruder to be left to wander the streets. It was either employ him to keep a close eye on him, or to put a bullet between his eyes. But Roman didn’t want to create another body, not when the feds were no doubt looking for Russo high and low. They’d dismiss Russo’s death without much investigation—it meant one less headache for them—but Roman didn’t need anyone growing suspicious by another body connected to his operation.

“Why now?” Roman asked, switching the course of interrogation, “If you are who you claim to be,  _ myshka _ , why surface after such a long hiatus? Those kind of silences tend to mean that you’re out—for good. And yet you’re here, signing to no longer be a vagabond?” Roman paused, “I’m sure you understand my suspicions.”

“Very much so,” the intruder agreed easily, “I was hoping Antoni was enough to convince you but,” a self-deprecating smile stretched across his face, “It’s never quite so easy, is it?”

“No,” Roman said.

The intruder hummed and leaned back in his own chair, mirroring Roman’s pose, “I was—I  _ was _ out,” he said, each word dragging out from behind his teeth like a shard of glass. His voice broke a little.

Roman couldn’t help but think that the man was either telling the truth, or he was an unparalleled actor.

“For good,” the intruder added, like an afterthought, “But it turned out that people weren’t so happy that I fell off the map,” the intruder sucked in a deep breath and settled deeper into the chair, before he let out the rush of air, “My hiatus lasted about a month before I had enforcers from every job I did kicking down my door. I spent a lot of money replacing locks.”

Roman made a noise of sympathy. The intruder looked settled into his seat, but Roman could see in the lines of his body that he was anything but. It could have been because of the life the intruder lead. Or it could have been because he was baring a part of himself to a stranger that he knew everything about, but knew nothing about him. It was revealing one of the cards in his hand. It was also quite possibly both, and Roman didn’t want the intruder startling.

“That was fine and all,” the intruder said with a shrug, “Most of them came around thinking that I’d be running my mouth, now that I’m not in the game,” he paused, “It’s all very stupid.”

“It is,” Roman agreed, having to bite back a laugh. The man looked genuinely miffed by the fact, as if he had expected better, and it was comical to think that the Vagabond was very liberally judging the people he once worked for. There’s also an edge of petulance to his tone that’s both hilarious and endearing—a  _ myshka _ , indeed.

“But a couple of months ago, it wasn’t so stupid anymore,” the intruder had to sit up before he gestured to his side with an uncomfortable twist of his elbow, “I opened the door and the enforcer shot, straight for my heart,” he sank back again with a shrug, “He missed. Hit my kidney instead—now I have to watch my intake on sugar.”

A rush of fury crept up along the back of his throat at the statement. Roman blinked and had to consciously shove it back, confused and genuinely surprised at his reaction. What happened to the intruder wasn’t exactly unheard of. It was rare, given that most knew better than to kill talent, but some people had more sensitive skeletons in the closet than others. It certainly wasn’t any explanation for his annoyance—or was it genuine anger?

“What happened to him?” Roman asked, deliberately flattening his tone.

“He’s dead,” the intruder said, off-handedly, as if that was to be expected, “And I learned there’s no real leaving things behind.”

“You’re not here for a job.” Roman concluded.

The intruder shrugged again, “In a way, I am,” he said, “I’m looking to get off the market. It’s—ah—safer, that way. For everyone,” he met Roman’s gaze, startling him with the intensity in his desert sky eyes, “I have a skillset, but I’ll take anything you have to offer.”

“You want protection.”

“No,” the intruder said, “I want stability.”


End file.
